


And you thought shower sex was complicated

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bickering, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Community: spn-reversebang, First Time, Frottage, Hellhounds, M/M, Witches, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21666994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: “You’re the one that got us treed here;you’rein charge of ideas.”or…When a winter witch hunt goes awry, Winchesters improvise.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 27
Kudos: 182
Collections: 2019 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	And you thought shower sex was complicated

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for the wonderful **[spn-reversebang](https://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/)** challenge on LJ, 2019 edition. 
> 
> So, so many thanks to **[emberthrace](https://emberthrace.livejournal.com)**! For the artwork of course — which gives me life — but even more for your patience and kindness and generous spirit. Dearest ******[Nisaki](nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/)** , I would be lost without you. Words aren’t enough. Last but not least, love to the challenge mods. All y’all are freakin’ amazing.

Dean hurls himself over a fallen log and ducks. “Low branch!” he warns Sam. Dead leaves crunch under his feet and his breath steams in the air.

“It’s gaining!” Sam yells.

“No shit!”

They hit a clearing. Sam puts on a burst of speed and shoots ahead—damn freaky long legs. Flashlight beams bounce around; bare trees throw crazy shadows.

“Climb!” Sam calls, just past the tree line. He pockets his light and hoists himself onto the limb of a tall oak.

Dean groans inside. Sam sticks a hand down; Dean grabs it and shimmies up the trunk. Dares a glance back. No sight, no sound except big murderous paws trampling down dry winter grass.

“Go-go-go!” Dean hollers.

Sam’s all over it. Branch-to-branch, they climb up fifteen, twenty feet. Oughta be enough.

Down below, scratching. Chunks of bark flake off and the underbrush flattens under assault from a swinging tail.

Dean shudders. “Now what, genius?” Fuck he’s winded. Hates running in the cold.

Sam situates himself on a sturdy limb. “I dunno.” He shifts and squirms. “She’ll come looking for it eventually; maybe she’ll negotiate.”

“Oh well that’s an A-plus plan,” Dean grumbles. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“You got a better idea?” Sam snipes.

“Yo. You’re the one that got us treed here; _you’re_ in charge of ideas.”

Sam snorts. “If you’d listened to me in the first place—”

“We’da never ganked that witch!”

“We wouldn’t have walked into a trap.”

“Pft.”

“And furthermore,” Sam lectures, “that witch remains un-ganked.”

“So far,” Dean mutters.

Sam sighs. Props his foot on the branch and rests an elbow on his knee. “Honestly. I think we should have a conversation about _not_ pissing off witches with pet Hellhounds.”

“We did, Sammy. Last month, remember? ’Cept that one had snakes.”

“Not helpful.”

“Bright side?” Dean tries, “We get a nice view of the stars.”

“Oh, you’ll have a _great_ view of the stars when I punch you in the face.”

“You try it, I’ll wedgie you to the moon.”

“You’re not tall enough.”

Dean gasps. “That’s—" _a low blow_ , he almost says, tees Sam up for another wisecrack. “—not very nice.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Wings flap overhead. Hoot owl, hopefully, whippoorwill or whatever, just… not a bat. Fuckers freak him out. Dean cringes. Mind plays tricks, like… He could swear he can hear that Hellhound, growling and snarling. What a crock. He’s not going to Hell just at the moment, and if he was? Pretty sure Crowley would collect him personally.

 _Crowley!_ Dean carefully retrieves his phone.

Sam eyes him. “You’re never gonna get reception out here.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

“Not if you drop it.”

Zero bars. Dean slips the phone back in his pocket.

“Told you.” Smug.

Dean blows in his hands. “Okay, smart-guy.” Wishes he’d brought his gloves. “How long you think we’ll be stuck up here?”

“Not long,” Sam says. “I mean. Hellhounds aren’t, you know, methodical.”

“Yeah, no shit.” And that’s a memory he could do without.

“What’s the matter?” Sam taunts, “You bored already?”

“Just looking out for your delicate constitution, Sammy.”

“Blow me.”

“You wish.”

Sam gets quiet. Dean probably crossed the line with that one, but Sam started it.

Dean stares at the sky awhile. Clear night, barely a sliver of moon. Stars blaze: Orion, hunting with his dogs, the Gemini brothers. Be about perfect if they had the car. Sprawled on the hood, drinking beer and soaking up engine warmth.

Dean’s ears perk up. “Dude! Listen.” He tilts his head. “That son of a bitch is on the move.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “Probably looking for a way up here. You think we should—” 

“Nah, we’re good.” Dean shines his light at the forest floor. “Look, you can see its breath.” Quick puffs, maybe a couple of feet off the ground. “It’s one of the little ones.” Not like that monster Juliet.

Sam shifts again, sits straddle. Feet swing and he leans back; head props against the trunk.

Dean teases, “Gettin comfortable, your highness?”

“Fuck you. And don’t call me that.”

Dean shows palms. Scans around. Be nice if they had their Hellhound glasses. Creeps him out, just watching it breathe down there.

“Quit fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting!” He drops the chunk of bark he was picking at. “I’m on watch.”

“Watching for what?” Sam squawks. “That hound’s not going anywhere, not until its mistress shows up.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And anything else that’d mess with us’ll have to go through it first.”

Kid’s got a point, Dean’s irked to admit.

He edges out along his branch, just to where it starts to sag with his weight. Pulls out his knife and cuts a piece, maybe a foot and a half long and three fingers thick.

“Now what’re you doing?” Sam asks.

“Whittlin’.”

“Whittling.”

“That’s what I said.” Dean scoots back to the trunk and starts trimming twigs.

“And exactly what, are you whittling?”

“A stick, dude!”

Sam’s branch sways as he turns Dean’s way. “You’re a mental case.”

Dean shrugs. Runs his blade under the bark, like peeling a carrot. Whisper-crack of steel on wood. Sound soothes him.

“You’re gonna wreck your knife.”

“I’ll live.” Maybe he’ll make a dick out of it. That’ll rile Sam up.

Sam watches. Hellhound quiets as the minutes tick by. Dean smooths down bumps and ridges, best he can without sandpaper. Sam’s long legs dangle in his peripheral. Nose and cheeks pink from the chill.

Dean’s sizing up where to start the cockhead when Sam shivers. Shakes his whole branch.

Dean sheathes his knife, tucks his stick in a pocket. Pulls out his flask. “Nip?” Can’t stand to see Sam cold, ever since…

“Uh, no.” Sam’s prim. “I’m trying to stay warm here.”

Dean eyes him. “Which is why you need the firewater.”

“Dude, all that does is make you flush.”

“Yeah! Warm! Hello!”

“You _lose_ heat, dumbass. How do you not know this?”

Dean shrugs. “Guess I’m just extra hot.” Throws Sam a smirk.

Sam stares. Flat mouth but his eyes… “Put that away. We got enough problems without hypothermia.”

“Buzzkill,” but he stows the booze. Got a better idea anyway.

Dean braces against the tree trunk, eases up to a knee.

Sam gawks. “Dean, what the fuck?”

Dean gets a foot under him. Reaches up to a limb above.

“Please don’t fall and break your neck.”

“Shut it.” Dean gets a grip and swings across to Sam’s branch.

“Seriously. What is the matter with you.”

“You said it yourself, man. Gotta stay warm.” And he slips in the space behind Sam. Straddles. “Snuggle time.” Pats his middle.

Slackjawed, “You are fucking with me.”

“C’mon.” Dean jerks his chin. “S’like when we were little.”

Sam sighs. Too cold, apparently, to put up a fight, he worms close. Leans against Dean’s chest.

“See?” Dean curls his arms around and hooks his chin on Sam’s broad shoulder. “Nice and cozy.”

“’Cause you’re so full of hot air,” Sam gripes.

Dean huffs. Then, “Rockabye, Sammy—” 

“Dude. That is super not-funny.”

“What! It’s a classic!”

“It is literally about falling out of a tree.”

“Oh yeah. Shit.” Dean chuckles. “So, how ’bout… Hush, little Sammy—oof!”

Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Okay, okay.” Dean squirms, tries to get semi-comfy. Rests his head behind Sam’s neck. Breathing syncs up and Sam’s pulse beats steady under his palm. He smells Sam’s shampoo, some kind of fancy rosemary shit he thinks Dean doesn’t know about. Cheap dryer sheets, dried sweat from their hundred-yard dash. Sam folds his arms on top of Dean’s, not quite a squeeze. Dean hums, involuntary and Sam gasps. Doesn’t pull away, though.

 _Fuck_. Dean should’ve thought this through. Sam’s so solid, warm in his arms. Whole. Broad, muscled back and sculpted chest. Kid got so skinny in between the Trials and that busted shoulder, there for a while Dean thought he’d blow away in a strong wind. Sam wriggles closer. Slim hips press into Dean’s crotch, which… Dean focuses, glad for his frozen toes. Sam rolls against him and Dean should let go, let Sam have his space before—

“Uh,” Sam says, “not to be all cliché, but-uh. Is that your stick in your pocket?”

Dean’s face heats.

“’Cause it’s jabbing the crap outta me.”

Dean exhales, turns him loose. “Funny enough,” awkward laugh, “I _was_ thinking I’d make a dick out of it.”

Sam shakes his head. “You are such a child.”

“Nah.” Dean fishes his stick out. “Just young at heart, man.” He whips the thing, watches it spin through the air, and—

“Do you hear that?” Sam goes tense.

“Yeah!” On his life it sounds like the Hellhound’s running off.

“That’s… not normal.”

“No. It ain’t.” Dean shines his flashlight down, scans between the trees. “You see the witch?”

Sam’s light joins his. “I can’t see sh—wait. What’s that?” Couple of feet off the ground, Dean’s stick bobs, headed back their direction. “Do… Hellhounds… _fetch?_ ”

“Not that I ever heard.”

Stick stops, hovers below in a cloud of breath.

“Huh.” Sam scoots away.

Dean’s eyes close as cold air floods the space between them.

Sam looks back. “Hey. Cut two strips off your shirt, willya?”

“No,” Dean says. “What for?”

“I have an idea.” Sam breaks off a small branch, strips its twigs while Dean sacrifices one of his best Goodwill finds.

“This better be worth it,” he grumbles.

“We’ll see.” Sam sticks out a hand; Dean gives him the cloth. Sam mutters, “Okay. Red thread, oak… Uh, holy water?”

Dean coughs up his other flask. “Dude, what the fuck.”

“I don’t guess you’re packing sage.”

Dean stares.

“Peppermint?”

“Sam, I swear to God—”

“I think we’ve been glamoured.”

“Oh, that witch is gonna get it,” Dean growls, pats his pockets. “I got Altoids…”

“That’ll work,” Sam says. “Crush one for me?”

Dean gets on it. Sam digs out a salt vial, pulls the cork with his teeth and shakes some on the cloth strips. Adds Dean’s Altoid. Wraps the ragged cotton around each end of his branch.

Dean watches. Sam’s long fingers, deft and delicate. “Where’d you learn this anyway?”

Sam shrugs. “Letters’ archives. You’d be amazed what’s in those files, if you’d ever take your nose out of Buxom Asian Lovelies.”

“It’s _Voluptuous_ ,” Dean corrects.

Sam rolls eyes. Soaks his stick in holy water. “Do the honors?” Offers it to Dean.

“What, just throw it?”

Sam nods.

Dean launches the mojo’d branch. Hellhound crashes after it, sure as shit, and brings it back.

Sam yells, “ _Falsa destruere!_ ”

Soft _pop_. Red smoke rises, clouds Dean’s flashlight beam. When it clears, “You are fucking kidding me.”

One, big, dumb, fluffy, golden retriever. Wagging its tail. Dripping stick between its teeth and a crystal dangling off its collar.

“Very clever!” Emanates from everywhere.

More smoke, down by the tree base, twists and forms into the witch.

“Release, Tank,” she commands, and the dog lets her take the spell from his mouth. “You two can come down now,” the witch says. “We won’t hurt you unless you force us.”

Sam cringes but Dean just shakes his head.

Naturally, Tank trots directly for Sam’s feet. Sits with a thump, looks up, and sticks out a paw for a shake.

“Some guard dog,” the witch complains.

Dean hangs back, but Sam is smitten.

“Can I, pet him?”

Witch-bitch rolls her eyes. “He’ll sulk for a week if you don’t.”

“Heyyyy, Tank,” Sam says. Scratches him behind his ears and goo-goo-ga-ga doggie talks.

Dean’s head hurts.

“So you found me,” the witch says. “Proud of yourselves?”

“Damn right,” Dean bluffs. “Talk in town is, you’ve been hexing locals. Killing crops, jinxing the football team…”

Snooty, “You believe _everything_ you hear in town? That’s enough, Tank.”

“Yeah, Sammy, that’s enough.”

Both look stricken as they separate.

“I mind my own business,” the witch says. “But… some Nancy Drew found a picture of me from like, 1880—”

“And blew your cover,” Sam finishes.

The witch sighs. “I hate the Internet.”

“Yeah, you would,” Dean mutters.

She shoots him a look. “I’m moving on.” She looks around. “Shame. I really liked these woods.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “if you’re so innocent, why’d you sic your dog on us?”

Flat stare. “Look at him. The only thing he _sics_ is Milk Bones.”

Dean shows her his gun, tucked in his waistband. “Listen, sister. I got witch-killing bullets here, so—”

“I just needed you two out of the way while I finished packing. I’m as good as gone.”

Meanwhile, Tank’s been creeping not-smoothly back towards Sam. Not-nonchalantly, Sam pats his head.

“You can tell the pitchforks and torches you killed me and burned down my cabin. Big heroes.”

Tank gives Dean the moon eyes. So does Sam.

“Fine!” Dean huffs, “But I swear, if I see you again—”

“I hope you’ll be better prepared.” She smirks.

“Count on it.”

“Dean…”

“So long, boys!” Hex bag hits the dirt, and dog and girl poof out in a cloud.

“We are not getting a dog,” Dean says.

Sam shows palms. “I didn’t—”

“It’s enough I gotta deal with _your_ hair.”

“Dean…”

“And I ain’t giving some stoned dog walker a key to the Bunker.”

“Are you done?”

Dean shrugs. “For now.”

Sam’s eyes close, mouth gets flat.

“Long hike back to the car.” Dean nudges Sam’s shoulder. “We should hit it.”

“Yeah…”

“Probably oughta swing back by the cabin too. See if she left our gear.”

Sam nods.

⁂

They check into the Pyramid Motel—kind of a, low-rent Luxor; Dean digs it. Lobby’s all painted like King Tut’s tomb. Plastic sphynx stands watch at the breakfast bar. Cartouche keychains.

Sam hits the showers while Dean hits up a KFC down the way. Ten-piece bucket, family size coleslaw, mashed potatoes. Dean even springs for green beans. He’s an awesome brother.

Back in the room, he finds Sam shirtless in track pants. Wet curls cling around his neck. Chest hair gleams damp. Dean swallows.

Sam catches him leering. Tongue runs out and he looks away.

Dean barely even feels bad.

Sam digs up, pulls on a v-neck. “You couldn’t have picked something less… fried?”

Dean plunks the bag on the table. “I hate to break it to you, Cleopatra, but this ain’t exactly a Veggie Grill town.”

Eyeroll. “At least tell me you got—”

“Coleslaw and green beans, I’m not a complete dick.” Dean sits. Pops the bucket and tears into a drumstick.

Sam meticulously puts a plate together. Daintily unwraps spork and napkin—which, at least he doesn’t put it in his lap. Eyes flick up, down, back up. Dean knows that look, same old conversation they’ve not-had every day for… fuck, he doesn’t even know.

“Y’know,” Dean says with his mouth full, “we should probably check those woods again, before we leave.” Fried breadcrumbs tumble down his shirt, not that he cares; thing’s ruined anyway.

“You’re vile,” Sam snips, “but you’re right.”

Dean bumps his knee. “I’m always right.”

“Ha!” Sam bug-eyes. “What if that’d been a real Hellhound, huh? What if—”

“It wasn’t.” Dean shrugs. “We got out okay, solved the case—Hell! You even made a new friend!”

Sam picks at his coleslaw, mostly pushes it around.

“Hey, Sammy?” Knees nudge again.

Kid looks up, all gold and green and blue-eyed. Nervous.

“It was nice, huh?” Lately, Dean can’t hardly remember why he fought this thing in the first place. “Up in that tree.”

“Oh, sure. Back cramps, butt splinters…”

“I meant—” He slides a hand across the sandstone-patterned Formica. Lets his pinky brush Sam’s thumb. “—snuggle time.”

Sam swallows. “Dean?”

“I liked it.” No bullshit. “Holding onto you.”

Deep breath. “I, I liked it too.”

Dean nods. Goes back to his food, lets Sam simmer.

Which, lasts exactly one chicken wing.

“What…” Sam stares at his plate. “What does that mean?” Spears a green bean; spork can’t hold it. “If… we both liked it.”

Dean wipes his hands on his shirt. Sam shakes his head but halfway grins. Dean shoves back from the table and circles, whispers in Sam’s ear. “I’m gonna shower. You’re invited.” Gives Sam’s arm a squeeze and trails his fingers across Sam’s back.

Sam shivers. “Dean, are you…”

Dean strips his shirt and chucks it in the trash. Slides off his jeans and shorts and socks all at once. Winks back over his shoulder and Sam stares as he struts to the bathroom.

Not great on the water pressure but it’s hot. Goosebumps crawl up his back and down his arms. Steam builds. Dean concentrates on his shampoo job, does not think about what happens if Sam shoots him down.

Tiny bar of soap, shaped like a leaf. Dean scrubs, neck and ears. Armpits, ass-crack, toes. Jaws lock up tighter and tighter as the minutes tick by.

Last rinse. Better find a way to make a joke outta this whole—

Curtain flutters. Cool, dry air and light spill in.

“Hey. Dean?” Pitched-up and tight.

Dean throws the back curtain. Hooks screech on the rod and Sam’s eyes flick, down-up.

“I’m… I’m into this,” Sam says. “I am, b—”

“But nothin’.” 

“I think we should have a conversation about—”

“You want this; I want this.” Dean sticks his palms up. “Conversation had.”

“You’re not… freaking out?”

Water’s pouring all over the floor. “ _You’re_ not?”

Sam swallows. Adam’s apple bobs. Dean wants to get his mouth on it.

“No…” Sam’s shoulders heave; he ducks his head. “I had my freak-out—”

“Years ago. Me too.”

Sam looks up.

“You gettin’ in? Or am I gettin’ out?”

Grin breaks slow across Sam’s face. “I thought you always said shower sex is complicated.”

“Pie is complicated.” Dean shrugs. “Don’t mean it ain’t great.”

Sam’s dimples, weapons-grade. He strips his shirt and slides his pants down. Dean licks lips. Half-mast just looking at this. Sam shies, like they ain’t seen each other naked eighty million times. Dean backs up and Sam steps under the spray. Throws back his head and water cascades off his hair, streaks down his chest. Chin drips and his lashes clump.

Dean shuts the curtain. Sam swipes water off his face and meets Dean’s eyes. Sam reaches, palms Dean’s neck and drags a thumb along his jaw. Dean grunts, steps in Sam’s space. Even under all this steam, kid radiates.

“What do you—” both start.

Both laugh.

“I’m all yours, Sam.” Dean leans into his brother’s hand. “I always was.”

Sam clobbers him. Shoves him up against the shower wall and slides a thigh between his legs. Dean’s feet slip. Sam saves him. Big hands clutch his sides and pull him in. Kissing, and Sam tastes like toothpaste. Stubble burns and Dean opens for him. Tongues spar. Nips and licks. Dean grabs two handfuls of hair, sucks Sam deeper. Teeth and noses knock.

And all the times Dean’s pictured this, wished for this—

Sam shifts. Dean groans. Hard against each other, Sam’s dick scalds him.

Dean breathes, “Want you, Sammy.”

Sam growls.

“Everything.”

Sam slides to his knees. Dean’s head thumps fiberglass. Eyes squeeze shut as Sam mouths around his root. He props a foot on the tub edge. Sam shoves his face in Dean’s crotch. Tongues at his balls, licks in his creases. Dean looks down, at last, at Sam’s hands splayed across his thighs. Wet hair plastered to his scalp. Head bobs and shoulders heave.

“Fuuuck, me.”

Sam’s fingers squeeze. He drags a fat wet swipe up Dean’s underside. “That an invitation?”

Dean’s insides clench. “You wish.”

Sam huffs. Seals his lips around Dean’s head and slides down. Cheeks cave and he jacks the base. Dean shakes. Suction ramps up. Sam moans around him and Dean fights not to thrust.

Wet-slick, Dean paws and tugs. “Sammy…”

Pops off. “You gonna come already?” Stands up, hand on Dean clamps tight.

Dean’s knees give. “Let’s… let’s get outta here.”

Sam nods.

Dripping on the carpet, bump and tussle, drying each other. Kissing, wrestling. Dean tugs soft at Sam’s hair, pins him to the sink. Sam two-hands Dean’s ass and squeezes. Foreheads press. They scratch and nip. Sam hooks Dean with a leg and grinds.

Dean grunts. “Wanna get you off just like this.”

Sam laughs, head falls back and Dean goes for his throat. Mouths him ear to shoulder. Lips and teeth and tongue. Sam moans, gets a hand between them and wraps them up together.

“Fuck yeah, Sammy,” Dean says into his neck.

Panting. Dean thrusts on Sam’s dick. Leaks in his fist. Cocks slip and stick, hurts sweet. Sam’s ass bounces on the counter. Sweat drips, salt and heat. Dean’s eyes catch the mirror. Sam’s strong back and long hair. Water droplets. Muscles ripple under his skin.

“God, Dean. Feels so good,” Sam breathes.

Fuck yeah, it does. And in Sam’s ear, “Come with me.”

Dean dives for his collarbone. Locks on tender skin. Sam’s grip tightens and Dean’s thighs shake. Faster.

Sam yells; Dean’s whole body seizes. Miracle he doesn’t pass out. Sam slumps back on the mirror. Dean slides down his chest. Mixed come, blazing, runs and puddles. Sam keeps jerking, wrings them out.

Heartbeats…

Sam squirms. “Uh. Dean?”

_Who?_

“Kinda… squashing me here.”

_Oh, right._

Dean shoves up, hauls Sam with him. Jelly-legged, but, “You always come that fast, Speed Racer?”

Eyebrow. “Didn’t wanna wear you out, old man.”

“Yo.”

Dimples. Little shit.

Dean eyes the mess they made. “Guess we gotta get back in the shower now, huh.”

Sam grabs a towel, chucks it at Dean’s face. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Dean’s dick twitches. The traitor.

“Seriously.” Sam ducks his head. “We… got a lot of time to make up for.”

“Yeah…” Dean slides a hand up under Sam’s jaw. “And I know just how I wanna start.” One soft kiss, noses bump.

“Sap,” Sam says.

“You love it.”

Sam’s smile makes Dean’s stomach swoop. “You love it too.”

Dean pulls Sam in.

**Author's Note:**

> Please go cheer for the artwork **[HERE](https://emberthrace.livejournal.com/1208.html)**. It deserves all the love. ♥


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